Not My Spook!

by Tinnean

  “And how many more times will you wake me?”

  “I imagine another five times. Unless, of course, you are a very early riser?”

  “Do you ever sleep, Max?”

  “Not when I am looking after a patient. There will be time for me to sleep once this has been resolved.”

  “Why are you doing this? It’s evident that you’re a skilled doctor.” A little flattery never hurt. “Why work for the Administrator and Prinzip?”

  “It is all a matter of choice, M. Mann. I had none.” He wasn’t going to expand on that. “I will be back in an hour.”

  “Don’t rush on my account.”

  A soft laugh drifted back as the door shut behind him. I rolled to my side and stared unseeing into space, gritting my teeth in frustration. I’d missed another chance to lift that leather case from the pocket of his lab coat. If I could get to whatever it contained, scalpels or other medical implements, I was positive I could find something to use as a lock pick.

  I’d have to hope for another opportunity.

  It’s Time Redux

  I

  ON THURSDAY afternoon, Matheson presented the results of his investigation.

  Anson Davies, the same Anson Davies who’d written that cautionary memo to Sperling, was the director who’d been having Miss Jones spy on my agent.

  This did not make me a happy man, as he was going to discover in the very near future.

  “He’s going to want to confront you,” I told Matheson. “As soon as you get the call, let me know.” I’d let Davies think I was ignorant of his plans, then turn up and pop his bubble.

  “Yes, sir.”

  I nodded, and he left, his step jaunty. As the door closed, I heard him whistling the strains of a disgustingly sweet melody.

  Jesus, some people moved in with a lover and totally lost their minds.

  II

  “MR. STANLEY to see you, sir.”

  “Send him in, Ms. Parker.” I rose and went to the door. “Stanley.” I didn’t tell him I would have gone up to his office. He didn’t like anyone thinking he couldn’t pull his weight and would have snarled something like, “What? You think I can’t handle a fucking flight of stairs?”

  “Vincent.” He limped into my office, dropped some papers on my desk, and leaned heavily on his cane.

  “What’s up?”

  “I know you wanted to be kept in the loop. God knows you’ve been calling me enough about it,” he muttered under his breath. “One of my people reported back. Turns out it’s a very covert organization in Europe.”

  “Does this organization have a name?”

  “Prinzip.” He pointed out some aspects that seemed to correlate with the disappearance of our people. “Apparently, their interests are allied closely enough to this country’s that when they’ve contacted CIA operatives to set up meetings, there was no question of the request being declined. Prinzip’s just snatched another one, name of Leonard Burroughs.” He gave a sour grin. “I’d say it was because those CIA spooks don’t know their asses from their elbows, but you’ve seen that even our people have gone to the assigned rendezvous. Although I still have no idea what the fuck Browne was doing there.” He whacked the leg of my desk with his cane and ran a hand through his hair. “I wish like hell you were still in the field.”

  “You aren’t going to ask The Boss to let me get involved?”

  “Are you kidding? He’s got other things in mind for you, and you getting your ass shot off isn’t one of them. And you did not hear me just say that.”

  “All right, but if you need me, I have no problem helping out.” What did Stanley know that I didn’t?

  “Yeah, you’re a real team player.” He turned to limp out. “I’m sending Donnelly to Berlin. It looks like that’s where their base is.”

  “Okay. Thanks for coming down and telling me.”

  “Welcome.” He limped out of my office.

  But he’d left the papers behind. I pulled up my chair and began to study them more closely.

  III

  AN HOUR later I was still studying them when I got Matheson’s call. “I’ve been summoned, sir. I’m on my way up.”

  “Good. You know what to do.”

  Then I waited for a second call, which came about six minutes later.

  “It’s like you suspected, Mr. Vincent. He made Mr. Matheson wait, but Mr. Matheson has gone into his office now.”

  “Good work, Gerry. Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome, sir! I helped, didn’t I?” The voice on the other end of the line sounded thrilled. Few of the deputy directors and none of the senior directors paid much attention to the mentally challenged man who cleaned their offices, which was stupid on their part.

  “Yeah, you did.”

  “I get a Slurpee?”

  “You get two Slurpees. Crème and root beer, right?”

  “Right, Mr. Vincent! I like you!”

  “Thanks, Gerry. I have to go now.” I had to cut him short, because otherwise he would name every agent in the WBIS, launch into detailed reasons as to why he liked me better than them, then go back and repeat himself. “I’ll get those Slurpees to you right after lunch.” I hung up and got to my feet.

  Ms. Parker looked at me as I left my office.

  “Two Slurpees. The usual.”

  She smiled. “Yes, sir.”

  I went up to ten.

  “Mr. Davies can’t be disturbed.” Davies’s personal assistant frowned at me over the rims of his glasses, then turned pale as he obviously recognized me. “He’s in a meeting,” he gasped out.

  “Yeah, with my agent.” I walked past him, then paused and glanced back over my shoulder. He had his finger hovering over a button on the intercom. “You inform him I’m out here, and….” I let it hang, but I could tell by the way his skin turned green that he understood I’d break his finger into little bits.

  My reputation preceded me. Cool.

  Davies was so involved with trying to browbeat Matheson that he didn’t even notice my presence in the room. He waved an eight-by-ten in Matheson’s face.

  Matheson grinned and reached for it. “Mind if I keep this?” He ran his fingertips over the photo, an almost besotted look on his face. Then it was gone, replaced by a flat, cold look. “I’m sorry, Mr. Davies. I don’t understand why you think this picture should disturb me.”

  “That young man you’re kissing is a whore!”

  Davies had a picture of Matheson kissing Theo? At least, it had better be Theo, or he’d be heartbroken to learn Matheson was screwing around on him.

  I’d have to find out who the fuck Davies had gotten to take that picture, and then I’d have a little meeting with the photographer. Nobody fucked with my people.

  Meanwhile, Matheson was saying, “Sir, if you refuse to allow me my constitutional rights—”

  “What rights? The right to be gay?”

  “The right to pursue happiness. And if that pursuit happens to include going after a guy, then yes. And I’ll have no choice but to bring a suit against you.”

  “Are you trying to get yourself killed? You don’t threaten this organization in that manner!”

  “Did it appear that I was issuing a threat? I’m so sorry, Mr. Davies. That was certainly not my intention. And of course, you could request the WBIS have me killed at any time.” His words became as cold as his expression. “But then they’d have to go to the trouble of finding someone else with my talents, recruiting him, and spending time they could ill afford training him.”

  Very nicely done. But if I didn’t want Davies to burst a blood vessel—for a moment I dwelled on that enjoyable image, then reluctantly set it aside—I needed to make my presence known.

  “And I would be pissed as hell.”

  Davies jumped as if he’d been tasered when he realized I was there. Predictable. It beat the hell out of me how the man had reached his position without having the least bit of awareness about his surroundings.

  “What are you doing h
ere, Vincent? This has nothing to do with you! It’s between your boy and my department.”

  “If it involves my boy, then it involves me.” I took the picture from Matheson. Fortunately, the man in the picture with him was Theo. “Are you sure you want this?” It wasn’t a very good likeness of him. He looked as if he’d just been kissed stupid.

  “If you don’t mind, sir?”

  I shrugged and turned back to Davies. “You want to tell me now why you’re fucking with my agent?”

  “You and your cloak and dagger maneuvers, Vincent! This isn’t the Cold War anymore!” Davies’s voice had gone strident, and he looked furious. “We are aware that Matheson was in Phoenix at the same time Bill Fitzwilliam disappeared. As you should know, Fitzwilliam was an irreplaceable contact for the WBIS.”

  “No one is irreplaceable. Surely you’ve worked here long enough to have learned that simple fact? And what gave you the impression that Matheson was in Arizona whenever it was you think Fitzwilliam went missing?”

  “Impression, my ass! It’s a goddamned fact, Vincent, and you should be the one aware of it if anyone is!”

  “Mr. Davies thought I might be interested in this, sir.” Matheson gave me a handful of papers, and I thumbed through them.

  “Hmm. This says that Matheson got Fitzwilliam back to the building that’s under construction for Huntingdon, knocked him out and dumped him where a pylon was going to be set, and then dumped about five hundred yards of cement on top of his body. Is that what you did, Matheson? I forget.”

  “I did not do that, Mr. Vincent.” Matheson turned to Davies. “I’m willing to take a lie detector test to that effect, sir.” He was safe in offering to do that, since we both knew where Fitzwilliam’s body—what was left of it—actually was.

  “Do you think I don’t know you’re both capable of passing a lie detector test, even when you’re lying yourselves blue in the face?”

  “Of course, you can always get a court order to have that pylon removed.” I grinned at him. “The floors above it will need to be shored up. Not sure how long that will take, but it’s a pretty big job. Once that’s done, it should only take about eighteen hours—and we’re talking overtime here—to break apart the foundation and get down to the base using jackhammers. That will set back the completion of the building by about another two months on top of the five months it’s already behind, thanks to Fitzwilliam, and the cost of the overrun will be at least an additional $75 million.” I was pulling figures out of my ass, but Davies believed me. It was good to have a rep like mine. “And all that would be found would be rubble. The CEO of Huntingdon would not be pleased with you, Davies.”

  Davies jumped up, grabbed the papers, and waved them in my face. “Fitzwilliam is dead, and this debrief proves it!”

  “No, Davies. That debrief is a tissue of lies. All it proves is that we discovered your spy, and she discovered a carefully laid-out plan! Matheson.”

  “Sir?”

  “Wait outside.”

  “Yes, sir.” He walked out, the photo in his hand.

  “Fitzwilliam was a valued employee, and I’ll see you pay for this, Vincent!”

  “Fitzwilliam was a bullshit employee. Accept the fact that he was screwing us over! The fucking son of a bitch had a nice little side business going on; he sold the weapons that were slated to be stockpiled for the WBIS in that building to the Russian Mafia and replaced them with fourth-rate hardware that was guaranteed to misfire at the crucial time, getting our people killed.”

  “Impossible! He checked clean!”

  And he believed it. “Jesus, Davies, you desk jockeys give me a pain in the ass. Next time you need to investigate some asshole, talk to me. I’ll get you someone who knows what he’s doing.”

  “But Fitzwilliam is dead!” Davies was starting to sound even more stressed. Good.

  “Are you sure of that? Knowing that I—that the WBIS was onto him, what makes you think he hasn’t just decided to cut his losses and run?”

  “No! He wouldn’t—it’s not—that’s impossible!” He went back to his desk and pawed through a drawer, finally pulling out a bottle of antacids. He downed a handful, leaving a chalky residue on the corners of his mouth. Really not an attractive look.

  “Is it? You should leave the ‘cloak and dagger’ tactics to my department, Davies. Tell me something. Why was Public Relations involved in this?”

  His eyes widened, his nostrils flared, and his lips tightened. The man was just a mass of facial tics.

  I pressed my advantage. “Why was Miss Jones tampered with?”

  “Who?” But his eyes had flickered for an instant; he knew I was referring to the secretary who’d been assigned to my agent.

  “Whose idea was it? What’s your connection to Fitzwilliam?”

  “These are unfounded allegations, which I categorically and vehemently deny!”

  I let the corner of my mouth curl in a grin.

  “You have no proof!”

  “But I have no doubt that if I start looking for it, I will find it! And when I do, The Boss—”

  “Trevor Wallace will never believe you over me!”

  “Maybe.” I shrugged and let my grin broaden. “But Mr. Wallace is a big believer in delegating, and knowing that, why would I bother him with a matter that falls under my purview in the first place? You’ve known me a long time, and you know I’ve earned my reputation.” I braced my arms on the desk and growled, “I’ll have no qualms in turning the tenth floor into a wasteland. Now give me the tape.”

  He shied away from my extended hand. “What—you—I have no idea what you’re talking about!”

  “Sure you don’t. Did you think I wouldn’t realize you’d try to record this meeting? C’mon.” I waggled my fingers, and reluctantly, he removed the tape from a micro recorder and dropped it onto my palm. “Oh, and one other thing, Davies. I don’t like having my people interrogated without being informed of the fact. I’m overlooking it this time. Next time I won’t be so easygoing about it.” I turned on my heel and walked out.

  The personal assistant was looking even paler. Had my agent been intimidating him? Good job.

  “Matheson.” I left, with him at my heels.

  “You’d think the guy had never seen members of Interior Affairs before,” Matheson remarked mildly.

  Swallowing my smile, I opened the door to the stairwell. “You’re sure you want to keep this picture? It really doesn’t do you justice.”

  “That isn’t my best side, but it’s a damn good shot of Theo.” Again there was the besotted grin. “I just wonder why Mr. Davies was so interested in who I sleep with.”

  Probably jealous he didn’t have someone as skilled as the former rent boy in his bed.

  Matheson handed me something.

  “What’s this?”

  “The assistant’s backup tape.”

  I took it and put it in my pocket. “Nice work, Matheson.”

  He looked pleased. “Thank you, sir.”

  IV

  THURSDAY ended on a high note, although those in Public Relations might not have been as pleased as I was.

  And Friday—well, Quinn’s town house wasn’t the same without him, and I was actually looking forward to moving into my own place.

  So that afternoon, men from the storage place brought up the bedroom and living room sets and my desk. Because it was a small apartment, the other stuff would have to stay in storage until I found a house that would hold it all.

  Paul, Spike, and Theo had volunteered to give me a hand with the move. They helped carry up boxes of pots and dishes and linens and put them out of the way, then arranged the furniture according to my orders.

  “The couch goes against that wall, the coffee table in front of it, and the TV in that corner.”

  While they were busy in the living area, I went into the kitchen.

  There were still about five days until Quinn returned home, but that was if things didn’t get screwed up, and considering who he worked for,
I wasn’t sure if I should hold out much hope for him turning up on my doorstep on Wednesday. Or Thursday at the latest. Still, when he did come home, I’d need to feed him.

  As I stored plates and cups in the cabinets, I considered various meals. A Portuguese restaurant had recently opened on Wisconsin Avenue, and I had no doubt they’d be willing to make my order to go.

  I’d learned to like the spicy, full-flavored food when my old lady had lived with a Portuguese sailor in New Bedford for a while.

  For a moment, I thought of Tio Ze. I’d made him an ashtray for Christmas when I was in third grade, but by the time the holidays rolled around, he was long gone, another casualty of my old lady’s capriciousness.

  I shrugged aside those thoughts. He’d gone down in the Halloween Nor’easter of ’91. It almost broke my heart when I learned about that, but he’d died doing what he loved most, and that wasn’t a bad way to go.

  “Vince.” Paul was hovering near the kitchen island.

  “Yeah, Pretty—sorry, Paul?” I’d called him Pretty Boy for so many years that sometimes it was hard to remember to use his real name now that he was out of the business. He was my favorite of all the rent boys, and not just because he’d let me take him to bed when that idiot partner of mine had gotten himself killed down in South America.

  Because of my friendship with Pretty Boy, that shit Sperling had made an appointment to spend the afternoon with him, and then he’d drugged and beat him, fracturing ribs and collapsing a lung, breaking his nose and lacerating his scalp. All that in an effort to make sure I stayed away from my apartment so Sperling could break into it.

  So I did, Sperling did, and then my apartment door did its thing by exploding when the locks weren’t disengaged in a specific order. Sperling was dead, but I wished I’d gotten my hands on him. He’d still be dead, but I’d have had the satisfaction of making sure he was longer in dying.

  Paul had been doing a lot better in the months since he’d been released from the hospital. Even the patch of hair had grown out.